


Fuck the Pain Away

by BellaFuckingRockwell



Series: 10 Songfics Challenge - House [7]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Aftercare, Collars, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Greg House, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-22 20:01:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/BellaFuckingRockwell
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.Doing the 10 Fics/10 Songs challenge again, this time in the Houseverse. Playlist goes on shuffle and for the first ten songs that come up I write a short fic inspired by it.Fic 7: Peaches - Fuck the Pain Away (oh god what a title)Summary: House wonders what his colleagues would think if they knew how he and Wilson spend their free time. Very loosely a mirror fic to the first songfic in this series, Love is Paranoid, which can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20968457. Or, a fic about literally fucking the pain away. I had no choice...





	Fuck the Pain Away

House likes to know things about Wilson. Privacy has never been a clause in the terms and conditions of their relationship, nor their friendship before that; it interfered with their quest to comprehend each other just that little bit better. Boundaries have been obliterated, lines erased to negate the need to cross them, both of them exhibiting behaviour over the years that wouldn't look out of place on a criminal record. God may think he works in mysterious ways, but love blows his amateur ass right out of the water.

These days, they just don't try to hide anything from each other. It's much more efficient. House no longer cowers behind pills and barbed insults when his pain is bad; he lets Wilson stroke his hair and comfort him, whisper reminders that it will pass. Sometimes, he even lets him kiss his scar. Meanwhile, Wilson lets his oncologist's mask slip here and there; forgoes the pretence that he's made of bricks when he loses a patient he was fond of and hopeful for. House may not know any pretty words to make it better, but he knows Wilson likes it when he rubs his shoulders and covers his clinic hours for the afternoon. 

They especially don't hide the fact that sometimes they both need an escape. Wilson, like the massive cliché he is, needs to be in control. House just needs to lose it completely.

That might just be House's favourite thing to know about Wilson, about them. He often amuses himself by picturing Foreman's face if he were to discover that sometimes when they get home Wilson tells him to get on his knees, and he does, kneeling in silence before him while he catches up with some work on the couch. He wonders what the oncology nurses would whisper among themselves if they knew that their polite, amenable department head grabs House by the throat and orders him to take off his clothes, fingering his own belt buckle to let him know what's coming. How bewildered Chase would be if House were to tell him that having to order him around all day, not to mention put up with that stupid Australian accent - or is it British? He can never remember - is utterly exhausting; so exhausting that when he gets home all he wants to do is give himself away. Give himself to Wilson.

These moments turn the volume down on everything that hurts him. There's nothing in his mind, because right now he doesn't need to be anything. It's so glorious not to need to _be_. Wilson seeks consent with every advance he makes, checks in throughout with a series of complex signals they've devised over the years. He never pushes him to the point of needing to use his safeword, never loses track of his responses. Wilson makes him feel safe.

House is helpless, and he's floating. He's somewhere else entirely. Somewhere so far from his fucked up leg, from Cuddy declaring that he's insane, from mystery symptoms and the reliance on his department to puzzle them out. His eyes are half shut, hands floppy against the headboard of their bed, held there by leather cuffs around his wrists. Wilson is inside him, filling him, rocking into his ass with slow, measured thrusts. His lips trail wet kisses across his face, his hand snaking over his stomach, his chest, stopping at his throat. The collar he wears is soft around his neck, tightening as Wilson slips his finger through the o-shaped ring at the front.

__

Wilson's eyes are cloudy, his mouth half open, sweat kissing his hairline from the exertion of his thrusts. His other hand grips the base of House's cock between thumb and index finger, preventing him from finding release. “You're such a good boy,” he purrs, and House stutters a moan. “I'm _so_ pleased with you tonight. You've earned this.”

__

That's the most intoxicating part of all. House doesn't obey Wilson so he'll be allowed to cum (even though he's always allowed anyway), or because he fears that wooden paddle that he's so fond of at the moment. He does it because he wants to surrender. He wants to hear those words. And Wilson knows how he wants to hear them; knows that House had never been taken like this before him; never been made to feel so admired, precious, desired. Loved.

__

“Good boy, Greg,” Wilson whispers again, and House sighs in delight, nuzzling against the hand on his face. Wilson's voice is unstable, his words tripping together, signalling that he's close. “You're perfect... tell me you're mine...” 

__

House whimpers, delirious, arching, involuntarily pulling at the cuffs until Wilson touches his wrist gently, reminding him to keep still. He fights with everything he has to comply as he gasps, “I'm yours, Sir. All... all yours...”

__

Wilson would smile if his mouth didn't contort with bliss, a ragged moan escaping him. It's like being reborn, like being freed, as that maddening, denying grip leaves his cock. Instead, Wilson's hand engulfs his length completely, stroking up and down in tandem with his thrusts. House can't hold back his cry, his desperation for release. He opens his mouth to ask, but Wilson is already granting permission: “cum for me, darling.”

__

As he obeys the final command of the evening, the world seems to fall away completely. Amidst his guttural cries, he feels Wilson spilling into him, hears that magnificent word being growled into his ear one last time: _”mine.”_

__

After Wilson has finished raining kisses onto his mouth and releasing him from his restraints, he tucks the comforter around him and fusses over his comfort. House is too woozy to make fun of him for it. He nods with a patience he usually lacks when Wilson asks if he's okay for the fifth time, letting the softness of the bed swallow him whole as he rides out the last of the endorphins. His head is heavy, his entire body so pleasantly lax, as if he were on Ativan. This, though, is better than anything any drug has ever given him: untouchable, unshakeable calm.

__

Wilson brings him a scotch and he knocks it back in one, the bitter hit only pushing him closer to passing out. He kicks away the blankets Wilson has spent so much time wrapping him up in to lay his head in his lap, his bare thighs cool against his cheek; fingertips soft, roaming up and down his arms. When he's regained enough of his faculties to speak, he manages something like, “you're incredible.” It feels inadequate; doesn't even begin to capture what Wilson gives him. Words are never going to be enough for that.

When the lights are out, Wilson lays beside him in bed. His arms are around his waist, lips in his hair, a leg slung over his hip, the warmth of his body lulling him towards sleep. House grins to himself in the dark as his mind wanders again to his fellows, those nurses; their shocked faces if they could glimpse into ultra-nice Dr Wilson's private life. Sometimes he wonders if it would be worth it to tell them, just for the inevitable hilarity. It's such a shame that Wilson would never forgive him.

There's a little breath behind him, a sign that Wilson has been ruminating. A sign that, worse still, he's about to share it. “I'm just wondering...”

"Oh, God." House squeezes his arm, gently. "I hate it when you do that."

Wilson hesitates, but he can't stop himself. “I was just wondering if I belted you too hard tonight. You were... noisier than usual.”

House can't help but smile. “But you like noise, Jimmy. I'm fine. Go to sleep.”

“That's good." He lingers on the phrase, and House can tell from his tone that's not going to be the end of it. “I just needed to check, but...”

“Wilson?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up. I'm happy.” It still jars him, speaking those two words together; but it's the truth.

Wilson sighs, fondly, tightening his embrace. “Okay.”


End file.
